


look for me everywhere the burn marks form

by besselfcn



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (dubcon is Tim/OMC), Background Tim/OMC, Body Image, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Dubious Consent, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, POV Second Person, POV Tim, Season 2 Typical Tim, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26324434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: Somewhere you can’t access, it hurts.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 17
Kudos: 64





	look for me everywhere the burn marks form

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DryDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DryDreams/gifts).



> While there isn't any dubious consent between Jon & Tim, I would not necessarily classify this as healthy JonTim. More like... canon-compliant JonTim. 
> 
> Happy birthday, Parker. I'm eternally grateful to you for getting me into this stupid, horrible show.

_It’s not contagious or anything_ , you tell him, his hands already pushing up the hem of your shirt, body pressing you to the thin walls of his cheap little flat. _I had an accident at work. Chemical thing._

 _Whatever_ , he slurs. James, or Jamie, or something. You’re sure he doesn’t remember your name, either. Probably thinks it’s _Tom_ or some awful shit. His pupils are blown wide; whatever he put on his tongue at the club tastes bitter on yours now, sends little pops of color racing through your jaw and down your throat. _You wanna top or bottom?_

You want him to stop pressing his thumbs into the ones on your shoulder that still haven’t healed right. _Whatever_ , you say.

He drags you to the bed and pushes you down onto your stomach. He has a floor-length mirror on his wall where you can watch your body writhe beneath him. 

You close your eyes. 

When you open them, there is blood in the sink. 

Droplets. Round, perfect. Then imperfect, where they run in rivulets down the bowl. Streaky little waves, like….

It isn’t your sink. 

Toothbrush, not yours. Mirror, not yours. Toothpaste, not yours--unflavored, what kind of a maniac buys unflavored toothpaste? The kind of maniac you went to bed with. The kind of maniac who goes to bed with someone like you.

It _is_ your blood. 

You’re awake. You blink. You’re still awake. He’s got one of those kits for skin care, to pull and peel at blackheads and other imperfections. Sharp points. Hooks. To catch and use for bait. 

Blood in the sink. Blood on the screw--no, the knife--no, just a pointed stick, for digging out the imperfections. 

It should hurt. Are you that fucking broken now, that it doesn’t hurt? Fingers slick with blood, gouges down to your muscle fascia, and it doesn’t hurt?

It hurts. It does. Somewhere you can’t access, it hurts. 

You run the sink. Leave the tools out, in case he wants to get rid of them. He ought to get rid of them. 

You go home and sleep. You think you do, at least.

*

It isn’t that you want to die.

You say this to yourself until it becomes almost true. It isn’t that you want to die. It’s just that waking up is getting harder. It’s just that when you sleep you feel an itch that goes down to your bones. It’s just that you find yourself at work, trying to determine whether 0070603 goes chronologically before or after 0070506, and you can’t remember how you got there anymore. 

It isn’t that you want to die. It’s just that being alive like this is getting pretty fucking old. 

*

_You doing alright?_

You scoff. _Just peachy._

Martin’s face sours. You feel almost bad for needling him; you know he’ll ask again. You know he’s just trying to be nice. You know he’s the one who slept in the archives for months, making tea and pretending it was normal. 

_I know, I know,_ he says. _You just seem… really off, lately. Just, if you want to talk… whatever._

He means well. Isn’t that always the worst thing about Martin? He means well.

 _I’m fine_ , you say, and try to put some weight behind the words. You let your mouth fall into a crooked smile. _Just haven’t gotten laid in a while, is all._

Martin rolls his eyes. Then he stops.

 _Oh_ , he says. _You’re serious, aren’t you?_

You laugh at him. You try to; it sounds empty, like echoing through endless spiraled tunnels. _Come on_ , you say.

 _No, Tim,_ he sighs, _I know you. You really mean that. You haven’t — what, you haven’t gone on a date in a while? It’s stressing you out?_

The stapler in front of you is jammed, and unjamming it is extremely important and very interesting. _It’s hard to convince much of anyone to fuck you when you’ve got a bunch of scabs that are going to bleed all over their sheets, isn’t it?_

_Oh. Oh, Tim —_

_Shut up, Martin._

_No, it’s fine, I’m not — I mean, you_ love _people, it makes sense you’d be —_

_Martin. Stop talking._

_Sorry._

_It’s fine. It’s just, you’re not my therapist._

_Well. Yeah. But- but maybe you should see one, I mean —_

You leave the room so quickly your chair knocks over. You hear Martin sigh over the sound of clattering wood.

*

Even getting off by yourself is, to put it mildly, unpleasant. 

Sometimes you manage it if you close your eyes or you get really into whatever it is you’re watching. Dig into your old classics, as it were. Let your mind drift somewhere pleasant, or listen to the echoey sounds of moaning playing on your phone loud enough the neighbors can probably hear while you just stand in the shower and take your time. 

Usually, though, you end up looking at yourself — your hand, your body, the curve of your neck — or feeling the rough catch and pull of matted scar tissue along the insides of your thighs. And then the heat goes a shocking cold, and you lay in bed and look at the cracks in the ceiling until the nausea abates enough to put your clothes back on and go to sleep. 

*

So you end up at his door.

Isn’t it always like this. Wasn’t it always before? You were drunk or he was desperate or you were both out chasing some lead too late and you’d say _do you want to mess around_ and he’d say _sure, why not_ , in the same tone of voice he would respond to _do you want to go out for coffee_ and it made you laugh, that answer, and it made you want to hear him fall apart beneath you. 

This does not feel like messing around. 

You’re almost surprised when he answers the door. Would’ve thought he’d been shuttered away in his archives, convinced you or Martin or Sasha was going to slit his throat while he worked. His hair is wild and he looks like he hasn’t slept in his life; he scans you up and down. 

_Tim_ , he says. Like it’s a question.

 _Tell me no_ , you challenge him. Not desperate or scared — just feet planted on his doormat, chin raised, looking him right in the eyes. _Tell me not to touch you. Tell me you don’t want to touch me._

He does not take his eyes off you. 

He pushes the door open the rest of the way, instead. 

Neither of you say anything. You don’t know what there is to say; you don’t know whether you want to hear whatever Jon would conjure up. He puts his hands on you here, and here, and here — all the places you are sensitive, fingers skimming over scars and lingering sores but never avoiding, never scared. Just touching. Like it’s normal skin. Like it’s part of you. His teeth and tongue fit themselves over the places Jane Prentiss tried to bleed you dry. 

You follow him down onto the bed and push his legs open. He leans back and sighs — gentle, like he’s finally let out a breath he’s been holding for months. He nods when you look up at him.

He tastes the same. You don’t know why he wouldn’t. You press your thumbs into his hips. Under your palms you can feel the rough edges of bite marks and you want to add yours to them but you do not feel revulsion. You don’t feel anything but Jon, Jon on your tongue, Jon on your fingertips, Jon shaking apart beneath you with a groan that sets your hips stuttering.

When he finishes he gestures for you to climb up on the bed and lay on your back. He moves on top of you quickly, efficiently, like this is part of his _job_ and that makes you laugh. You don’t know the last time you laughed. There are tears in the corners of your eyes and his hand splayed out over your chest and he’s touching you like he wants to do it, like it’s _okay_ to do it, and when he turns his head there is a circular little scar behind his ear in the same spot as one of yours. 

Maybe if you pressed yourselves together just right they’d all line up, like a perfect mirror image. 

You spill into him with this thought on your tongue, itching to get out, to ask him to form a honeycombed labyrinth of scar tissue between the two of you. 

He slips off you. The moment fractures. Or you do. You don’t know; you don’t want to know. You know that your heart is pounding in your chest. You know that something in you wants to crack open and scream. You know that when you sleep tonight you will dream about a circus.

You know that this is the last time you will ever do this with Jon. The way he looks at you feels too much like something burrowing into your skin. 

But for now, for right now, he says, _room enough in the shower, if you want to join_ , and you do, and Jon showers so hot that it peels your skin back raw, and the two of you sleep with legs tangled up against each other until you leave with the morning light. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter @besselfcn.


End file.
